I AM NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER, PLEASE STOP GIVING ME QUESTS

The road from Harrowgate wound southward like a river carving its own lazy course, trading golden fields for coastal dunes that hugged the edge of the world where land met sea in a perpetual argument of foam and grit.

It had been three days since the harvest revels, three days of easy walking under skies that held their blue with stubborn grace, the air growing saltier with every mile, laced with the cry of gulls and the distant crash of waves that sounded like the ocean clearing its throat.

The relics had quieted to a gentle murmur after the rite, the scepter's shards settling into a rhythm that matched the tide's pull—warm against my side, like a pocket watch ticking toward some unseen appointment.

My coat, ever the survivor, had picked up a fresh layer of road dust and sea spray, its hems stiffening with salt that made every step whisper crisp.

I was Cecil Dreggs, the unlikely inheritor of bindings and bumbles, and after the fields' fertile farewell, this coastal stretch felt like a breath between acts—peaceful, but pregnant with the kind of quiet that always preceded the punchline in our particular brand of story.

The crew had loosened up in the aftermath of Harrowgate, the rite's warmth lingering like good ale in the veins, turning our march into something closer to a meander than a mission.

Thorne led with his usual measured stride, staff parting the sandy path like a shepherd's crook, but there was a new ease in his shoulders now, the weight of solitary legacy shared among us like a well-worn blanket.

The village had stirred something in him—old stories swapped over cider, Mara's hearth-memories filling gaps in his family lore—and as we crested a dune overlooking the tarn, he paused, inhaling deep of the brine.

"The Twilight Tarn," he said, voice carrying over the wind's low moan.

"Valthorne's testing ground for the circle's first weave.

Waters that shift with the light—calm at dawn, treacherous at dusk.

If echoes linger anywhere, it's here, in the tides that remember every secret drowned."

The tarn stretched below us, a crescent of glassy blue cradled by dunes and cliffs, its surface deceptively still under the midday sun, fringed by tidal pools that glittered like scattered jewels and reeds that swayed in hypnotic unison.

But Thorne's words hung heavy, a reminder that waters like these didn't just reflect the sky—they mirrored the soul, pulling under what you weren't ready to face.

Lilith shaded her eyes with one hand, the other resting casual on her scythe's haft, her stance relaxed but coiled, like a spring wrapped in silk.

The fields had softened her barbs a touch, the rite's truths coaxing out stories of a childhood spent dodging clan expectations, and now she scanned the shore with a mix of wariness and wonder, horns catching the light like burnished copper.

"Looks inviting enough to swim.

But I've learned the hard way—pretty water hides teeth.

What's the play, Thorne?

Wade in and wrestle our reflections?"

Her tone teased, but there was steel beneath, the demon who'd faced fen-ghosts and field-whispers now eyeing the tarn like an old rival she'd rather outwit than outfight.

Vorren shifted his packs higher on his broad back, boots sinking slightly into the soft dune sand, his gaze fixed on the distant waves where the tarn fed into the greater sea.

He'd taken to the coastal air like a man reclaiming old ground, the rhythm of the surf echoing some forge-song from his youth, and when he spoke, it was with that gravel-steady certainty that cut through doubt.

"Waters test balance.

Stand firm, or they take you under.

I'll watch the shallows—keep the pull honest."

Simple as that, but it landed like an anchor, Vorren's quiet strength the kind that didn't need fanfare to hold the line.

Jex scrambled up beside Lilith, sand already dusting his boots and trousers, a seashell clutched in one hand like a talisman he'd plucked from the path.

He held it to his ear with exaggerated focus, then grinned, passing it to her.

"Listen—it's whispering about buried bootsy.

Nah, but seriously, tarn like this?

Prime for pilfered pearls or pirate puzzles.

You in for a splash, Lil?

Loser buys the first round at whatever fisher-hovel's waiting."

His energy bubbled light against the shore's somber hush, but the fields had grounded him a fraction, turning his sleights from solo swipes to shared schemes, the kid who'd once run solo now weaving his mischief into our web.

Yvra unfolded her journal at the dune's crest, the pages fluttering in the breeze as she sketched the tarn's curve, her quill dipping quick to note tidal patterns and light-shifts.

The rite had peeled back layers of her courtly armor, revealing the girl who'd once dreamed of seas beyond palace walls, and now her observations carried a poetic edge, blending strategy with subtle awe.

"The texts describe it as a mirror-maze at twilight—illusions born from submerged relics, testing worthiness through what you see in the depths.

If we time our crossing for the turn, the circle should part the veil.

But misstep, and it drags you into drowned dreams."

She capped her quill with a decisive click, meeting my eyes with that blend of calculation and camaraderie that had become her hallmark.

Fog settled on the dune's lip, his form shimmering faint against the haze rising from the warm sands, tea cup balanced impossible on his knee as he gazed out over the water.

"Depths deceive, Cecil.

What sinks may rise renewed, but only if you trust the current beneath the churn."

His words drifted soft, laced with the faint salt of old sorrows—the apprentices lost to similar tides, their echoes rippling in his misty gaze—but they steadied like a hand on a shoulder, Fog's wisdom the quiet current that kept us afloat.

Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim crested last, turning the dune-climb into a comedy of slips and salvos, Thrain's lance catching the wind like a sail—"For the crown's coastal cavalcade!"—sending him teetering before Gorrim's steadying grab turned into a mutual tumble down the slip-face.

They rolled to a sandy stop at our feet, helmets askew and grins undimmed, brushing grit from their pauldrons with theatrical flourishes.

"Undulating uprising!" Thrain declared, while Gorrim adjusted his mustache with a flourish.

"Most perfidious powder!"

Their laughter boomed out, scattering a flock of shorebirds into wheeling cries, the knights' knack for turning peril to play a spark that lit even the tarn's somber shore.

We descended the dune in single file, boots sinking into the warm, yielding sand that gave way to firmer gravel at the water's edge, the tarn's surface lapping gentle at our toes like a tentative greeting.

The tidal pools teemed with life—crabs scuttling sideways over iridescent shells, anemones waving lazy in the shallows, tiny fish darting like silver thoughts—but the air held a subtle charge, the relics' hum sharpening as if the water remembered Valthorne's touch.

Twilight crept in slow, the sun dipping toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and violet, turning the tarn to a mirror of molten colors that reflected our faces back distorted, eyes too large, smiles too sharp.

The illusions began subtle—a ripple here, a shadow there—then bolder, the water shifting to show glimpses beneath: sunken relics glinting faint, drowned figures reaching up with hands like kelp-wrapped bones.

My reflection stared back from a pool, face older, wearier, relics heavy as chains.

Give up, it mouthed.

You're tired.

Lilith's pool showed her alone, horns shadowed, scythe rusted idle.

Vorren's a forge cold, hammers silent.

Jex's pockets empty, streets endless.

Yvra's journal blank, courts closing doors.

Thorne's scar unscarred, but eyes hollow with unlived years.

Fog's cup dry, mist faded to nothing.

The knights' reflections knelt, lances broken.

The pull tugged, cold fingers at ankles, urging deeper.

But we held ground, circle flaring soft—scepter raised, shards linking with the crew's steady breaths, illusions fading like mist in morning.

The tarn parted, a path of packed sand gleaming through to the far shore, where a weathered arch of driftwood stood sentinel, runes etched faint but familiar.

We crossed single-file, water lapping harmless at our heels, the mirror-maze yielding to the circle's truth.

On the far side, the dunes rose gentle to a hidden cove, the arch humming welcome as the last light bled away.

Thorne touched the wood, runes glowing brief.

"The testing passed.

Valthorne's veil holds here—echoes quiet, for now."

Lilith exhaled, shaking water from her boots.

"Quiet's relative.

But yeah—nice not drowning for once."

Vorren nodded to the cove's curve, where fisher-boats bobbed on leashes of rope.

"Shelter.

And stories, if the crews talk."

Jex eyed the boats, grin sly.

"Stories and supper.

A tarn-trek works up an appetite."

Yvra closed her journal.

"The arch aligns with the next binding—coastal currents carry the weave southward.

Rest here, then riverside by dawn."

Fog sipped, mist blending with sea-spray.

"Currents connect.

As do we."

The knights saluted the arch.

"For the crown's cerulean conquest!"

We claimed the cove for the night, fire crackling on driftwood under stars that wheeled bright over the waves.

Talk turned to tides and turns—the illusions' truths faced and folded away, bonds burnished brighter.

Sleep came easy, lulled by surf's song.

The tarn had tested.

We'd passed.

But coasts always hid coves within coves.

And the current called on.